


Borrowing Happiness

by trillian_jdc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Drunk Dialing, Drunk Greg Lestrade, Drunk Mycroft Holmes, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mystrade Monday, Mystrade Monday Prompts, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/pseuds/trillian_jdc
Summary: Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes pick the same evening to get drunk and call their crush.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 30
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaNToast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaNToast/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I'd Never Call You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25285165) by [Loveismyrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution). 



> I read the linked story, in which John finally admits his feelings for Sherlock by drunk-dialing him because of Greg's suggestion, and I thought "Greg should get his own happy ending" (especially since that other story ends with a nod to him). So here's my version of that, also involving drunk dialing.
> 
> The title comes from the saying "drinking is borrowing happiness from tomorrow."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg is jealous of John.

Although he wouldn't admit it, Greg was jealous of John. Their drunken night at the pub, and his stupid suggestion that John tell Sherlock how he really felt about him over the phone, had gotten John everything he'd been dreaming of. Now, the doctor and the detective were ridiculously happy together. And Greg was here drinking alone. He really needed to watch that. Couldn't have it happen too often. 

It had been the kind of idea that only made sense when you were drunk, and yet, it had somehow all worked out. Really, there wasn't as much risk involved as John had thought. How Sherlock felt about his friend was obvious to anyone who spent any time with them. Greg had an advantage here, of course; he'd seen what Sherlock was like before John Watson appeared, and how much he'd changed for the better since.

John had offered to treat Greg to a night out as a thank-you, but then Sherlock texted, and the two were off on another adventure. Or maybe just take-away and telly. You never knew with those two.

Greg felt left out. Why didn't he ever have these stupid-brilliant ideas for himself? Some blokes had all the luck. At least he hadn't been drunk enough to reveal his secret crush in return. He knew better. Sherlock may have supernatural powers of observation, but Sherlock's brother, now, he was the one with the cameras. Who knows what he might pick up on based on a casual comment or the twitch of a lip or a moment of eye contact held too long? 

Anyone who spent too much time with a Holmes risked being swept into their orbit, seduced by the unique way they saw the world and the amazing things they could do. Getting the attention of one, even for a moment, was addictive. Thankfully, the effect was only temporary on Greg when it came to Sherlock, because too much time together worked as an antidote, particularly given how much Greg had seen of his history. 

Greg hoped things might work out differently with Mycroft. He hadn't yet spent enough time with him for those moments to lose their luster. He hoped they never would. The older brother seemed to have more hidden depths, not wearing his every interest and emotion on his sleeve. The two of them had more in common, too, having experienced the highs and lows of looking out for the brilliant and damaged younger Holmes. 

At least Mycroft had manners. Greg didn't have to fear being outed or humiliated if Mycroft picked up on his interest. Just frozen out, Greg suspected. Although now that things had settled down for Sherlock and John, there were fewer and fewer chances for Greg to meet with Mycroft. That was a damn shame. Even though Greg knew nothing would ever come of it, he did like admiring (only to himself) how good the man looked in his three-piece suits, with all the props and accessories, and how well they showed off his long, trim legs. He didn't know why Mycroft felt the need to dress up as though he was the living embodiment of the British nation, but the end result was enjoyable. 

Greg's thoughts turned to visual daydreams, his highlight reel of past meetings, as he continued drinking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is jealous of Sherlock.

It took Mycroft a surprisingly long time -- almost an hour -- to identify the unusual feeling he was experiencing. It was jealousy. Of Sherlock! His little brother had been so giddy lately, so high on life. Mycroft hadn't seen him this happy in years, even when he'd returned from the dead or certain death or imprisonment. His doctor friend apparently had even more loyalty and patience than Mycroft had dreamed. He had had no idea when he'd made that sly joke, so many years ago, that he'd turn out to eventually be so right. Well, of course he was always right. Cold comfort that was this evening. 

Sherlock hadn't resisted telling Mycroft the whole story, wanting to share just how adorable he found John, and how much he admired his strength and determination, even if it needed a copious amount of alcohol to come out. Sherlock could never resist showing off something he knew his brother didn't have, even if his brother didn't want it. 

Mycroft, as a gift that Sherlock didn't recognize, tried to keep his eye-rolling to a minimum. In spite of the attempt to make him envious, he was happy for his brother, of course he was, even if he could see seventeen ways this was bound to end in disaster. Perhaps they'd beat the odds. Goodness knows Sherlock had always had all the luck. 

Now Mycroft was exorcising his tedium with a good brandy by the fire. He would never lose count of how many he'd had, but he was determinedly not paying attention to the number as he contemplated an experiment of his own. He wasn't sure he'd ever been as drunk as Sherlock had described John being. If you defined drunkenness as losing some amount of control, it would take an awful lot of alcohol to overcome his self-restraint. He'd probably get sick first. 

Here, alone in his sitting room, it wouldn't matter how much more brandy he had, anyway. Who was going to disturb him?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which conversation, invitation, and drunkenness occurs.

As the evening wore on, and more and louder groups came to the pub, Greg figured it was time for him to head home. Better call a cab. Or, wait, there was a contact on his phone. It said "Car". Push that one, then. 

"Hello, Detective Inspector," came the polished voice of the perfect assistant. Oh, it was that pretty lady Mycroft had as a minion. Minions, that was funny. The nephew had him watch that movie. Got the word "banana" stuck in his head for days. Sometimes it was fun just to say. 

"Banana," he responded to the voice. It snickered. 

"I see how it is," the voice said. "Please go outside and wait for the black car." 

Good, simple directions. That was nice. He could do that.

* * *

Mycroft frowned at the decanter. He didn't give it permission to be empty. Its friends... no, probably the other bottles were colleagues. He didn't expect they invited each other round for tea on the weekends. Where would they put it? They already had liquid refreshments! Mycroft giggled at the idea of a liquor tea party. No, wait, that was brilliant. He should have one. 

But then he'd have to invite a bunch of boring toffs, and he didn't want to see them. They were no fun. They never smiled. No one ever smiled at him. Except for the brandy decanter, but it had gone away. He frowned again in the direction where he'd last seen it. 

Who was the last person he'd seen happy? Sherlock's doctor and their policeman friend, they were happy. At the pub. Mycroft had looked up the footage of this famous phone call. They had been laughing and falling on each other and slapping the table and so very pleased with themselves. He should look at that again. 

Mycroft wandered around the sitting room for a bit, touching everything, until he found his mobile, next to his chair. He tapped at the screen until he found Lestrade's picture. It wasn't smiling. It was an ID picture, it wasn't allowed. That was wrong. The man looked so much better when he smiled. Maybe he could find the footage that showed that. That would be nice. 

He tapped at the screen again until he saw Lestrade's face looking at him. That must be the camera system. He didn't remember it being so colorful and high resolution, though. 

"Mycroft?" came through the phone. Oh, dear, that wasn't the cameras. That was a video call. 

He could do this. He could talk to anyone. He always knew what to say. The mobile spoke again. "Mycroft, why did you call me?" 

He'd waited too late. Damn that brandy. He carefully, and slowly, formed the right words. "Good evening, Detective Inspector." He peered more closely at the screen. He recognized that leather seat. "Why are you in my car?"

"I think your minion likes me. She sent me a car when I said 'banana'." 

"That is not an approved code word." Mycroft's brain was enjoying playing at being a tortoise. "Wait. I am not supposed to tell you we have code words." 

Now it was Lestrade's turn to peer at the screen, squinting. "Mycroft. You're drunk. I know, because so'm I." He laughed, a beautiful noise.

Mycroft beamed at the phone. "I knew you smiled. Do it again." 

Greg grinned, quizzically, at the phone. "Alright. That's easy enough." He paused. "Mycroft, where am I going?" 

"Why should I know?" 

"You know EVERYthing." 

"Well, yes, that's true." Mycroft tried to think again. How odd, that so much social lubrication had the effect of making his mind feel like grinding gears. "Are you going home?" 

"Oh, right," Greg agreed. "Home. I said take me home." He paused. "Do they know where I live?"

"Of course they do, Greg." Mycroft got stuck for bit, thinking about how pleasant it felt to say his name, until he heard his own name coming from the phone speaker again. 

"Did you need something from me, Mycroft?" 

Mycroft worked hard at focusing on the phone screen. "Oh. Yes. It's your fault." 

"What'd I do now?" Greg slumped, suddenly discouraged. 

"You told John to tell Sherlock who spent the afternoon telling me all about how happy he is now." 

"Oh, is that all? What's wrong with that?"

"Greggggggg," Mycroft whined. "Sherlock isn't _ever_ nice to me. He doesn't know how. He kept telling me the story and how adorable John was. I don't want to think of Dr. Watson as cute. Teddy bears and guns don't go together." 

Greg didn't know why Mycroft being upset about his brother was any different now than every other time, but he couldn't resist a chance to make someone feel better. "There, there. Come here, and I'll help you forget it." 

Mycroft's gloriously happy expression was something Greg had never seen before, but he liked it. It was vaguely puppyish in its obvious affection. 

"You're so smart, Greg. You have the best ideas. Well, putting Sherlock in the same room as official police business may not have been. Nor covering up for Dr. Watson. Nor getting married to that woman. Nor..." 

"Mycroft," Greg interrupted firmly. "I am not going to help you if you make me feel bad." 

"Oh," came quietly out of Mycroft's mouth. "Please don't feel bad. I feel bad most of the time. I don't like it." 

"Oh, you poor thing. C'mon over." Upon hearing Greg's invitation, Mycroft called another car, hung up the mobile, and tossed it onto the sofa as he headed out.

* * *

The driver helped navigate Mycroft into the back seat, where after telling the driver to take him where the previous car had gone, he dozed until they arrived. Thankfully, the short nap allowed him enough presence of mind to find Greg's door and rap politely upon it. There was no answer. 

Pressing his ear to the door, Mycroft heard faint snoring from inside. How rude! You didn't invite a guest over and then refuse to let them in. Mycroft took a credit card out of his wallet and used it to open the spring lock. Greg really needed better security. Mycroft would help him with that. Then he could have his own key. 

Once in the flat, Mycroft followed the trail of clothes, sloppily dropped where removed, into Greg's bedroom. He'd fallen into the bed and gone to sleep, it seemed. Well. All right then. Mycroft would follow the lead of his host, as was proper to do. He shed his layers, down to his pants, and lay down quietly next to Greg. This was nice. And the right thing to do. He'd been invited.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is never comfortable.

Greg harumphed his way back into consciousness the next morning, scrubbing his hand over his face and hair. He really shouldn't drink alone, because he didn't remember exactly how he got home. He looked around the room slowly. Yep, that was his clock, his nightstand, his bed, his clothes on the floor, Mycroft, his closet. 

Wait a minute. One of those things didn't belong here. He looked more closely at the undressed man in his bed. Mycroft was dead to the world, it seemed, curled up on his side with eyes closed, mouth slightly open, hair drooping a bit over his forehead, and arms tucked up around the pillow, hugging it slightly. Considerate bedmate, he was, not to snore or steal the covers. Cute, too, Greg thought, and found himself paying more attention to the auburn-furred chest and surprisingly strong-looking arms and those long, bare legs with their muscular thighs. As various parts of himself decided to wake up more distinctly, Greg shook himself and decided he needed coffee before dealing with this. 

As he wandered to the kitchen in his dressing robe, he realized there had to be a story here. Greg wondered if he'd find out what it was. It wasn't every morning that you found the man you were daydreaming about in your bed, particularly when you didn't remember how he got there. Greg had seen enough to know that he needed to take the gifts the universe gave him and appreciate them, but he wasn't going to rush into anything either. It would be important to see how Mycroft reacted. Mentally shrugging, he began making toast and coffee. 

He was seated at the small kitchen table when he heard a shocked exhalation and a thud from the bedroom. Ah, Mycroft must be up. Greg put his breakfast dishes in the sink and headed back towards his guest, whom he found huddled on the floor, backed up to the bed, clutching the duvet to his chest. That wasn't promising. Looked like a soft touch would be needed then, keep the conversation light. 

"Morning!" he greeted Mycroft, who stared at him. "You ok? Fall out of bed?" 

As he waited for an answer, he could see Mycroft's armor coming back into place as he glared. Ah, he'd not get the story, then. "Never mind, we've all had one too many the night before. You left your clothes on the chair," Greg nodded toward the furniture in the corner of the bedroom. "Feel free to take a shower if you want. I'll be in the kitchen." 

It was only a few minutes later when a fully dressed Holmes appeared. "Coffee?" Greg offered. He hoped at some point Mycroft would say something. Greg wasn't about to try and guess what he was thinking. This was the quietest morning after he'd ever had. 

Ah, the parted lips indicated Greg might be wrong. The mouth closed again. No, Greg was going to be disappointed. A couple more cycles of this, and Greg couldn't restrain himself. "You keep doing that, someone's going to mistake you for a goldfish." He grinned at Mycroft. 

That broke the spell. "My apologies for intruding upon your residence. If you could lend me your mobile -- mine appears to be missing -- I will call for transportation and leave as soon as possible." 

"Aw, don't be like that. Have some toast. If your night was anything like mine, you need something to soak up the remnants of the booze." 

Upon seeing the food on the counter, Mycroft pressed his lips firmly together and looked away. Greg took pity. "At least a glass of water, then." He took a clean tumbler and filled it at the sink. 

Mycroft took a polite sip and set the glass down. "I hate to repeat myself, but your phone?"

"Oh, right. I know I used it last night." Greg quickly went into the bedroom and found it on the nightstand. As he returned to the kitchen, he was scrolling through the contacts. "Odd. I thought there was one marked 'Car' here last night. Now it's gone." 

Mycroft sat down and put his head in his hands. "Now I know I'm in hell." He looked up at Greg. "You won't find it, nor be able to ring the number, until I'm forgiven." 

"What do you need forgiveness for?" Greg joined him in sitting at the table. 

"Not taking advantage of an opportunity." Greg thought he saw a tiny pout on Mycroft's face before it smoothed out again.

Mycroft had apparently made up his mind, as he folded his hands on the table in front of him. "How much do you remember of last night, Greg?"

"Not all of it. Why, did something happen?"

"No, but not for lack of hope." Mycroft paused before sharing the facts. "We were both drunk. I called you by mistake. You invited me over but fell asleep before I got here." 

Greg suspected there was more to this tale, but he wasn't going to press it. Maybe just a bit. To see how Mycroft would react. "And you decided to join me?" 

In contrast to last night, Greg was going to remember this as hard as he could, because he had made a Holmes brother speechless. Just for a minute, but there it was. He had stumped Mycroft, who was looking away and refusing to meet his eyes. "It's ok. No harm done. 'M glad you stayed here instead of trying to get home if you were impaired." 

"It won't happen again, you can be sure of that." Mycroft was glaring at the table napkin as if it had personally wronged him. 

"Shame, that is." Greg stood up and turned towards the cabinets, but not before seeing a slight moment of surprise flit across Mycroft's features. "You sure I can't get you something? Before I take you home?" 

"No, thank you," came the quiet reply from his temporary houseguest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confession time!

After Greg quickly cleaned up and got dressed, he drove Mycroft home, parking and hopping out before Mycroft could vanish again. "Gonna invite me in?" he asked, knowing that etiquette wouldn't allow the proper man to say no. Greg wasn't going to let Mycroft go back to how things had been between them, and he couldn't resist the opportunity to see a little of Mycroft in his own environment. 

The result was disappointing, as what Greg was allowed to see was a set of minimally decorated rooms with very little signs of life. Greg stepped into the sitting room and almost tripped over a fancy decanter, left to roll on the floor. He picked it up and set it on the nearest side table. "Had yourself a little party here last night, did you?" 

Mycroft crumpled into an arm chair, forehead in his hand, face shadowed, the portrait of misery. "Please, can you leave me to my regrets?" 

Greg realized Mycroft was still in the dregs of remorse over last night. "Of course. 'm sorry for my teasing. I never meant to upset you. That's what's wrong with me, never know when to quit." 

"You? There is nothing wrong with _you_.”

"There's nothing wrong with you, either, Mycroft. Was last night your first bender?" 

After a moment, a silent nod answered him. "Happens to the best of us," Greg hurried to reassure him. "Nothing to worry about, we're all friends here." 

"Do you often share a bed with your friends, Inspector?" Mycroft bit out. 

"Sometimes. Is that what's bothering you?" Greg thought he remembered Mycroft being a lot chattier last night. Now it was pulling teeth to get him to talk at all. 

Mycroft seemed so utterly weary. "Do we have to talk about this?" 

"Whatever you want." Greg spread his hands open in a gesture of appeasement. "Won't push you, but I'd like to know more of what happened. But if that's not what you want... Why don't you go back to bed? Seems you could use a little more sleep." 

Mycroft had retreated even further, imitating a turtle, defensively waiting for danger to pass before it came out of its shell. Greg became concerned. "Mycroft? You ok? Do you need me to call someone?" 

"No!" Mycroft suddenly bellowed. "No, I do not need someone called! That's what started this mess!" He was up and pacing in an instant. "It was a lovely idea, until I ruined it, but then, we all know reality is nothing like we're told it will be. Happiness is for other people, I've known that for decades, in spite of Sherlock beating the odds every time." 

Greg suddenly had a flash of memory from last night, of what Mycroft said right before Greg invited him over. "Oh, sweetheart, c'mere." He wrestled Mycroft into a hug. "You're ok. We're ok. You can be happy. It's all right to want that." 

Mycroft froze, unyielding, before collapsing into Greg's arms, burying his head against a strong shoulder. Greg continued reassuring him, "I told you I'd take care of you last night, didn't I? That's why you were there. And I didn't do what I said I would, and that's on me. I want you to trust me. I've wanted that for a while now." 

"Don't lie to me," came floating up from somewhere around Greg's chest. 

Greg chuckled. "How could I? You'd know." He knew the time had come for truth and bravery. "I couldn't stop thinking of how unfair it was that everything worked out for John and Sherlock. I wanted to roll the dice for me instead of that git getting the happy ending. If you hadn't called me, I would have called you. Maybe after a few more drinks."

Mycroft slowly raised his head and squinted at Greg. "You were going to call me?" 

"Yeah, 'course I was. I've been interested in you for a while now. Interested enough to give it a try, anyway. How about you?" 

"I got drunk for the first time last night, Greg, and although it started as a dialing mistake, the only part I enjoyed was seeing your smile." 

"I can do that for you, no problem." Greg smiled down at the man cuddled against him. "C'mon now. Let's get you settled. Where's your bedroom in this place?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Mystrade Monday again, and this week's prompt, which appears here, was “There is nothing wrong with you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg gets back at John and gets closer to Mycroft.

Mycroft reluctantly let go of Greg and turned to lead him up the stairs to the bedroom. As Greg walked out of the sitting room, he spotted Mycroft's missing mobile on the sofa and snatched it up. 

Once upstairs, Greg encouraged Mycroft to change into pajamas, offering to introduce him to the enjoyment of a shared lie-in. He excused himself to the toilet, where he took advantage of the momentary privacy to phone John. 

"Mycroft, what is it now?" snapped John. 

"Not Mycroft, that's what it is," Greg chuckled. "You're not the only one who gets lucky, you know. Don't tell Sherlock." 

Greg hung up, knowing that John would be unable to hide anything from his demon genius flatmate. Sherlock would annoy him until he found out, and then that knowledge would annoy Sherlock. That'd get them back for ditching him at pub night. 

Leaving the phone on the vanity, Greg freshened up, washed his hands, and avoided checking himself in the mirror. He and Mycroft both knew each other at this point, and it was both late and irrelevant to worry about what he looked like now. He entered the bedroom to find a tense-looking Mycroft propped up on the bed, hands in fists at his side. 

Greg smiled again at him and began undressing. Shoes, socks, trousers, shirt, but the pants stayed on. His "May I join you?" was answered with a short, sharp nod. Mycroft's eyes tracked him warily, but they were the only part of him that moved.

Greg climbed onto the other side of the bed and crawled closer. "May I hug you?" got the same brief acquiescence. He settled back and reached out his arms, beckoning Mycroft closer. "Come on, put 'em around me." 

That woke Mycroft up, as it momentarily distracted him. "Are you purposefully quoting Norma Shearer?" 

"Thought you might know that. A classic never goes out of style. Now come here." Greg made a long arm and snagged Mycroft closer, getting him settled against his chest. "Just so you know, you can relax with me. No judgment, no expectations." 

"You'll forgive me having a hard time believing that, Greg. There are always expectations around me." 

"Then this should be a pleasant surprise." 

"You do surprise me," Mycroft murmured. "One of your many unique charms." Mycroft had begun hugging back, snaking his arms around Greg's waist. His eyes closed. "You are ... comfortable, Greg. Thank you." 

Greg brushed a light kiss across Mycroft's forehead. "You're welcome, sweetheart. Snuggle in and sleep, and we'll try this waking up together thing again, shall we?" 

Mycroft smiled and followed Greg's instructions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another example of how I try to write comedy, and it ends up with feelings. 
> 
> Norma Shearer said "Put 'em around me" in _A Free Soul_ (1931), one of her famous Pre-Code films. Clark Gable played the gangster she fell in and out of love with, and Lionel Barrymore won the Best Actor Oscar in the role of her father.

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to TeaNToast for the encouragement.


End file.
